Chemical Candy
by Windsett
Summary: True evil can be more than just a colour.
1. Base Layers

**AN: This wasn't planned, but was inspired by reading the film's creators reveal that the colour acid green is associated with evil, and an interesting tumblr post about Sour Bill and King Candy and what true evil can look like. So this happened, which is a bit darker and a **_**lot**_** longer than what I'd planned. It's pretty much finished, but I'm splitting it up to make it easier and less time consuming to read. (And it's certainly not taking precedence over A State of Flux, whose next chapter just needs a final proof read before I post it up in the next day or so). Finally, thank you for taking the time to read this - it's very much appreciated!**

* * *

**1: Base Layers **

The Bad Anon meetings that were held weekly were treated as a big deal in the Arcade. Or, to be more accurate, their _attendees_ were treated as a big deal throughout the Arcade.

They would stride or swagger or saunter to Pac-Man's tunnel and never say a word. Well not if they didn't want to. Not any more.

They would seek out eye contact with anyone around, and those they locked on to would be recognised with an indulgent smile and a slow nod. The bad guy would then sometimes half-heartedly lift their hand in acknowledgement, or in farewell, or in understanding that was frayed and twisted but still intact.

It would all depend on who was to receive the gesture of course. But regardless of who the character was, they would always watch the villain merge into the tunnel's blackness with an appreciative glint in their eye. They couldn't _help_ being bad, they would ponder generously while feeling a profound sense of thanks that they were someone else. At least they were _trying _to keep their sick and violent urges under control, they would deduce graciously at the same time as wondering, with a delicious twist of guilt, just what those sick and violent urges were.

It was brave of the bad guys to seek help for the issues they could do nothing about.

It was brave of Pac-Man to allow the meetings to be held in his game.

It was brave of the other characters to offer up their well distanced support and paper thin understanding.

It was, in Sour Bill's beleaguered opinion, a complete waste of time.

Bill slouched against the side of Pac-Man's entrance and regarded the help booths that threaded down the spine of Game Central Station. The Station was only a quarter- full of characters milling around, so the Surge Protector had reduced its lighting to half-power. The Protector had also replaced Sonic's death-outside-your-game warning on the booths with his Evening Bulletin. The electric blue letters of the Bulletin burned like fireworks in the dull blackness, but the interest they promised fizzled out when read. Or skim read, in most character's cases.

Sour Bill considered them again and hoped the Pac-Man train would leave without him.

_Calendar: 2013; April; Thursday; 6.54 post meridiem. (that's p.m. for those of you who still can't be bothered to remember)_

_Event In Progress: Not Applicable. (And it had better stay this way)_

_Upcoming Event: Bad Anon meeting; Pac-Man; 7.00 post meridiem; core villain programming essential pre-requisite for admittance, attendance and additional post meeting assistance. (Basically, if you're not a bad guy don't bother with it. But why would you? For fun? Curiosity? It's not a laughing matter you know - show some respect)_

_Current Atmospheric Fluctuations And Their Immediate And Subsequent Effects On You And Your Game: thunderstorm risk - low; subsequent critical electrical surge probability - low; temperature - average; humidity - low; possibility of rain - negligible. (I know you only pay attention to this weather report when the alarms go off, but it wouldn't hurt you to take a daily interest in it. Knowledge is power, and I certainly don't research them for the good of my health you know. …well actually I do, but that's beside the point…)_

Sour Bill allowed his eyes to drift away from the nearest screen to follow M. Bison's stroll through Pac-Man's tunnel. Bill was still new enough to life outside of Sugar Rush for the Surge Protector's briefings to be almost interesting, and found their blandness nearly reassuring. They were certainly different to King Candy's evening ritual, which involved an explanation of the daily roster race, distributing candy, the roster race itself and then throwing more candy about. These briefings only varied with regards to the racers selected for the next day's racing, and even these had finite possibilities, but every inhabitant of Sugar Rush had hung onto their Monarch's words and screamed in excitement as if hearing them for the first time.

As close as Sour Bill had orbited King Candy, he had never been sucked into his night-time rituals. These had taken place behind closed doors, and Bill had been content to pretend they had never happened.

It had been four weeks since Sugar Rush had re-set and that world had shifted violently on its axis. Everyone had, to an extent, emerged from the realignment bruised, scared and disorientated, but ultimately freer and lighter.

Sour Bill on the other hand had experienced that seismic shift as just a soft rumble. Additional memories had been returned to him, but these had leaked back into him as a trickle, while everyone else's had flooded them like a wave. He had wondered, as candy and sparkles and reality tore like a vortex around him, why he was rooted in the eye of the hurricane, and why his head felt like iron and his heart resembled lead.

But he'd only wondered briefly, because when things had changed the first time around his life hadn't become much better, so what was the likelihood it would this time?

What was the point in bothering, when no-one would thank him for it?

What was the point in hoping, when he knew he didn't deserve it?

What was the point?

What?

The Evening Briefing pulsed, and the digital numbers flicked up to 6.55.

Sour Bill was preparing for his third Bad Anon meeting this Thursday, and his future in the Arcade felt like stumbling around a desert wasteland in the dusk.

* * *

Sour Bill had learnt that the Bad Anon meetings were originally hosted in secrecy.

The handful of villains that had, to put it bluntly, been forced and threatened and outright tricked into attending the first meeting had not done so graciously.

They'd slinked towards Pac-Man's tunnel embarrassed, bitter, and full of more rage than they could ever remember. They'd kept their eyes to the floor or blazed them in defiance at anyone who had the misfortune to look at them, and had entered the tunnel and sat on the train as if they'd just been told their plug was about to be pulled.

They had scraped through the first meeting in a conflicting storm of screaming and silence, and had vowed never to attend again.

In response, Bad Anon's founders had flexed their respective powers and insisted they continue attending. A couple more villains had been rounded up, and the second meeting had progressed the same way as the pilot had.

Stubborn and influential and powered by conviction, the founders continued to press all attendees into more and more meetings. Not everyone could be persuaded to join, but those that did gradually fell into a rhythm, and fought with less and less conviction against the weekly conference they had to attend.

After enough time had passed and enough meetings completed for the experience to become routine, the code chains responsible for the villains' confidence and superiority sub-routines had sparked. They'd untangled themselves and awoken from an enforced and uncomfortable sleep to burn brightly again.

Subsequent meetings saw members walk calmly towards Pac-Man's tunnel and emerge from it thoughtful and controlled, as they adjusted their situation to suit them.

Being part of a select group exaggerated their programmed conviction that they were elite, and it was now practically a badge of honour to go into therapy. It was a source of pride that they required something no-one else in the Arcade had need of and, for many, it was the most worthwhile thing they contributed too all week.

Other characters respected them for their acknowledgement of their limitations and their commitment to accepting it. Ralph had, after the Sugar Rush event had played out, told them that as a bad guy they were more fundamental to the survival of their game than they could possibly know. They'd swallowed it whole, and at the end of each meeting would heartily recite the Bad Guy Affirmation. They would then, in companionable silence before the meeting ended, drink in the words of the new slogan Ralph had suggested complement the existing one.

_Bad Anon: I'm bad, and that's good. I will never be good, and that's not bad. There's no one I'd rather be then me._

_Bad Anon: One Game At A Time._

_Bad Anon: Fight For Your Arcade, Not Your Game._

Some villains had been genuinely helped by Bad Anon, and treated their membership with respect. Wreck It Ralph never arrived late, always brought snacks when it was his turn and offered any new bad guy a discreet shoulder to cry, scream or rest on.

Zangief on the other hand lapped up the attention his status brought him. He hammed up the 'I'm a bad guy at peace with myself but can never truly be _at _peace so, when I'm crushing your head between my thighs and your teeth are rattling around the floor, please take a second to stop and think about how hard all of this is for _me'_ something rotten.

During Sour Bill's first visit to Tappers he had, from a corner stool, watched Zangief coax, persuade and guilt trip everyone into buying him a drink. Bill hadn't yet figured out the bar's bartering system, and so hadn't ordered himself a drink or even enquired about the correct payment.

And he certainly hadn't asked Tapper just exactly what the deal was around here, for the last time he'd asked a question along that line he'd spent a week in the pitch black fungeon with only a chain and a scuttling thing for company.

Instead he'd selected a seat as close to the wall as possible, and settled in to silently absorb the bustle around him. Zangief had worked his way steadily around the bar and eventually stumbled up to Bill, and had immediately launched into his polished history of woe and hardship and self-sacrifice.

Bill had looked into the Russian's expressive eyes and almost felt sorry for him. Zangief could spin a decent tale and pepper it with the vocabulary and inflections needed to part people with whatever it is he wanted them to part with, but Bill remained unmoved. Zangief had registered this and cranked the rhetoric up a level, this time adding exaggerated hand gestures and facial expressions to the mix.

When Zangief had finally exhausted his store of speeches Bill had slowly raised one eyebrow, hopped off the stall and exited the bar.

It wasn't that Zangief lacked talent, but Sour Bill had been the Henchman to a master manipulator for years, and the Russian's attempts at coercion were like a brick to the face compared with the subtlety Bill had experienced.

Compared, Bill admitted blankly, to what he'd allowed to happen and to what had streamed over him on a daily basis.

What had streamed over him but never infiltrated him.

Maybe if some of those things had permeated Bill's rock hard shell and been absorbed into what passed as his bloodstream, he would have cared enough to stop some of them.

But they hadn't, and he hadn't.

If he'd been made differently things could have unfolded differently. But he was what he was, and each leader of Sugar Rush had ruled the way they saw fit. Bill knew these were poor justifications for his short list of actions and achingly long list of inactions, but he didn't know what he could do to elevate both of these tallies out of the blood red columns they wallowed in.

He simply didn't know.

* * *

King Candy had wiped his hands, locked the door behind him and adjusted his burnished crown.

Sour Bill hadn't moved an inch in response to the nod he received – an action that had earned him another silent gesture of approval – and concentrated everything he had on obeying King Candy's previously whispered instructions to him.

Bill covered his ears and didn't worry and forgot about the sounds behind the door.

Forty minutes later his eyes were still burning scorch marks into the ash grey bricks in front of him.

* * *

Bill had jerked and awoken violently from the nightmare and preceding shallow sleep he'd slipped into.

He hadn't found his shell covered in sweat or been terrified that his thumping heart would burst out of his chest, and he acknowledged that these actions probably should have taken place. His green casing had remained as dry as sandpaper and his encoded heartbeat had continued to pulse softly, and he contemplated what could possibly happen to ever make him scream.

The second, third, fourth and fifth nightmares he'd experienced during his second, third, fourth and fifth nights as a citizen of President Vanellope's reign had been similar.

After the second one he'd spent the rest of the night sitting on a bench in Game Central Station. The lights were dull, and the Surge Protector had scribbled something on his clipboard before zipping away abruptly.

After the third one he'd entered Tappers and met Zangief and catalogued all the things he didn't know. This task had been interrupted repeatedly, and still remained incomplete.

After the fourth one he'd visited Taffyta and asked if her dreams were just as bad. He'd been able to convince Wynnchel and Duncan that her screaming wasn't his fault, and had avoided her ever since.

After the fifth one he'd woken up Vanellope. He'd described his visions in razor sharp clarity and questioned her blandly if she remembered them as well as he did. Vanellope had blanched bone white, glitched violently and shouted at him to never enter her room again or she wouldn't be responsible for her actions.

Three days later she'd taken his arm and dragged him to Bad Anon for the first time. He'd not questioned her or even thought to resist her pull; he'd never doubted her actions and had promised to do what she said.

He'd entered Pac-Man's tunnel and ridden the train and tried to dissect the word 'bad' and failed to put the shards he'd created back together again.

* * *

His first Bad Anon meeting had mostly been spent in silence.

When it had come to the holding of hands and the reciting of the Bad Guy Affirmation, he'd informed everyone slowly and clearly that he didn't think physical contact on his part was a good idea. Everyone except Ralph had heartily encouraged him to join the circle and at least just listen to the words, to let them sink in, but Bill had simply looked at Clyde with doleful eyes and wondered how anyone could possibly participate with a straight face, let alone actually believe all of this.

Satan - _Sah-teen_ - had tried to clasp his hand but before his fingers could make contact, Bill had regretfully informed him that he was poisonous, and that one touch would kill him. Satine had jerked back in shock and tried to work out if Bill was lying. Bill had mutely deflected all of Satine's peppered questions and then, with exaggeratedly raised eyebrows and a voice dripping with condescension, told Satine no wonder his game's plug was on the brink of being pulled if he was the best quality villain it had.

The spark had been lit, and Satine had jumped to his feet and roared. Everyone else had bellowed their two cents' worth, Clyde had made one failed attempt to re-establish order, and Bill had sat like a radioactive rock in the middle of a turbulent sea.

To show that Bill was just messing about - that he was just nervous and didn't understand what was going on yet poor stupid little guy - Ralph had abruptly lifted him up, glared sharply at him, and removed him bodily from the meeting to drop him heavily into the train outside.

For the first time in decades, Bad Anon had finished without the Bad Guy Affirmation being recited.

Ralph had immediately informed Vanellope, who had frowned in thought, narrowed her eyes in concentration and ordered, with a self-satisfied glint in her eyes, for Bill to undergo a full examination.

* * *

'You have,' the Surge Protector had concluded smartly as he removed his medical gloves with a snap, 'the most compressed coding mass I've ever seen. The code streams are so densely connected they're almost a solid, and describing its protective gateway as vitriolic would be an understatement.'

Surge had thrown the gloves into a bin and flicked a switch. The blindingly bright overhead lamp had cut off sharply, and the bank of monitoring screens had retreated into their humming standby mode.

'If it wasn't for the fact that you don't glitch, I would have said you were corrupted beyond all repair.'

Sour Bill had lowered himself slowly down from the hard plastic table, and regarded his examiner with dull eyes.

'Thanks for breaking the news so gently to me doc.'

Surge had regarded Sour Bill sternly and used a middle finger to push his glasses back up his nose.

'You remind me of a chemistry lecture I picked up through Mr. Litwak's unsecure broadband connection the other day: 'The Enzymatic Production and Subsequent Crystallization Reformulation of Malic Acid.'

'…malice?'

'…malic. It's an acid that produces an extremely sour taste when added to candy. Don't ask me why some of the players like it so much, what with spending all their pocket money on it just to complain about how awful it tastes. Crazy nonsense if you ask me. But it's not just present in candy though; it's in wine and unripe fruit and half a dozen other E Number concoctions.'

'…why exactly should I care about any of this?'

Surge had tilted his head and clasped his hands behind his back. 'Because, when I could finally unravel one of your code chains long enough to scan it before it snapped back into place, I saw that they were all identical to malic acid's chemical structure.'

'Oh.'

'It's like the programmers used those foul little sweets as inspiration when they created you. They decided to bypass its sweeter cousin citric acid and jump straight to the wicked stepmother.'

'…Oh.'

'Their packets even have the warning 'excessive consumption can cause irritation of the mouth' stamped in capital letters a cheerful mixture of hot pink, bright yellow and bile green.'

Surge had shaken his head.

'A temptation to consume legal poison. How about that, eh?'

Sour Bill had paused, opened his mouth, closed it again, looked blankly ahead and walked out of the room in silence.


	2. Synthesis

**AN: This chapter is fairly bleak, but I do plan on making things a bit lighter in the final part! And as always, thank you for reading.**

* * *

**2: ****Synthesis**

* * *

Sour Bill was the villain of Sugar Rush.

He always had been.

Unlike other racing games, the programmers of Sugar Rush had given their game a plot. It was crude and basic, and seemed like nothing more than a sub-par, last minute knee-jerk reaction to the discovery that similar racing games had been released onto the market at the same time.

The game's start-up sequence showed Princess Vanellope and her loyal subjects racing around their candy coated world laughing and joking. A series of close up shots showed them enjoying the sun and sparkles and not worrying about anything more than who got to eat the last cupcake.

But just when they were at the height of happiness, Sour Bill would drop from the sky and crash onto the race track. A flash of lighting would shoot out of a solitary grey thundercloud over his head, and a pool of green poison would fan out from his feet and flood the road. The music would kick up a pitch and all the racers would yelp and swerve around it. The toxin would spread, Bill would laugh and the racers would look back in horror as their world was eaten away.

But only some of the racers would have escaped the toxic spread, and these would be the playable characters for the day. Vanellope would then turn towards the screen and, in a voice both determined and excited, inform the player that only they could save Sugar Rush by winning a race so, what are you waiting for friend, insert those quarters now and chews your racer!

Yes, that basic.

Basic and pointless, Sour Bill thought every single time.

After he'd interrupted the race and let off a cackle of cartoon evilness, he was never seen again. If someone took up Vanellope's challenge and started playing, the daily racer screen would pop up, a player would be selected and the game would begin. But regardless of which circuit was chosen, there was never any sign of Bill anywhere: not on the track, not in the crowds and not even shown defeated at the end of the winning race. There wasn't even a single drip of his released poison anywhere. And if no-one listened to Vanellope's entreaty and simply walked past the game, the start-up sequence would just re-boot and continue to play in a loop until the quarter alert finally sounded.

A pointless piece of programming.

But, like all straightforward stories featuring what seemed like a one-dimensional hero, there would always have to be a simplistic villain to defeat. Sour Bill looked the part and acted the part, and constantly wondered what he'd ever done to deserve such a moronic existence.

For a while, Bill had continued to 'terrorise' Sugar Rush and, for a while, he'd almost come to terms with his fate.

But then Turbo had slipped in, as twisted and elegant as a snake formed of shadow, and released a cloud of poison so effective it permeated the world without anyone realising a thing had changed.

Bill had been allowed - or had he simply been able? - to remember that King Candy had tried to destroy Vanellope's code, but he had never lived through his reign knowing why. Of course he had never known his leader as Turbo, as that name was foreign until the game had re-set and everyone's memories had been freed.

But Bill had worked alongside part of the real entity wearing the crown and, although he had attended King Candy, he had been serving another master entirely.

* * *

Turbo's serrated words had mixed in easily with the sweet air the inhabitants of Sugar Rush breathed in and diluted the reality they accepted, and they had absorbed it steadily. Steadily but not easily, for the artificial honey coating his orders and justifications often dissolved quickly, and a racer would sometimes be left with a foreign prickling at their throat and a tight ache in their chest.

But, to their understanding, King Candy was their leader and they lived a good life – they'd always lived a good life with him – so they scolded themselves and continued with their lives and promised never to doubt him again. Sometimes they would uncomfortably admit to their King that they had thoughts or dreams or doubts that something wasn't right in the world. King Candy would soothe and calm and explain that they were mistaken, that everything was fine, and why don't you stop worrying and just have some candy and please never speak of this again.

But promises were sometimes broken, and their failed holders would pay the price.

Sour Bill had never found out how King Candy had come into possession of the _konami code that allowed him to_access Sugar Rush's code room. But what Bill did know was that he didn't know all of it.

King Candy had never hidden the fact from Bill that he wanted to subdue, corrupt and remove as much of the game's code as he thought necessary, particularly with regards to the ruling Princess, but he'd never explained more than that.

The first time Bill had asked him why Vanellope's code needed to be destroyed at all, King Candy had explained that it was for her own good and that he needn't worry himself about it anymore.

Months later, when he'd queried why Vanellope's code needed to be corrupted to such an extent, King Candy's stuttering yellow glare had seemed to pierce his very shell, and he'd exited the throne room quicker than he'd thought possible.

Year later, when he'd voiced an off-handed thought if Sugar Rush had ever changed appearances at all, he'd been taken to the fungeon and chained to the centre of the floor. He'd never been able to identify the scuttling thing with claws that had kept him company, but he could still remember its smell, and how it felt like liquid steel, and how its yowling echoed off the damp walls.

He'd never asked about Vanellope again, and tried not to wonder what she was like before she'd been sentenced to life as a glitch.

* * *

Vanellope had been encoded as the game's ruler and primary racer, and was hardwired into the game's very existence, and all of King Candy's skill couldn't bring about her deletion. He'd shifted quickly from fear to rage to begrudging acceptance upon discovering that, and had drawn up a list of ways to corrode her existence and erase her legacy.

He'd been able to lock away most of her memories and, slowly, carefully, as if handling custom made car parts fresh from the workshop, had split and cut and brutalised her code streams. He'd taken his time parting and entwining and twisting them into a frayed wire ball which he'd stuffed into a chest. He couldn't liquefy the trophy of Vanellope's existence, but he could scratch it and discolour it and tattoo his grey mark upon its surface.

Sometimes, when the Arcade had closed, King Candy would enter the code room and do nothing but clench his fists and glare silently at Vanellope's chest.

The King would simply float, sometimes for hours, in the pixelated darkness and stare intently at the remains of the only racer that could still beat him. King Candy's eyes would burn sodium yellow and Bill would sometimes lift one finger - would lift one finger oh so imperceptibly - from the rope he held to tether his leader, and wondered if he would ever lift it any higher.

Would wonder if he _could_ lift it any higher.

* * *

One item on King Candy's checklist of deletion had been to remove the start-up sequence.

Still buoyant from his successful integration into the game, he had played hard and gambled that the players wouldn't abandon Sugar Rush if its Princess's face no longer shone out at them. Bill had never found out if King Candy had been aware of Vanellope's image printed on the outside of the game's console, but even if he had there was nothing he could do about it. King Candy had risked a lot by hoping the players wouldn't notice a prominent character was missing from the very game she was advertising.

King Candy had risked a lot early on and had won.

Sugar Rush's theme tune would still blare out brightly, but the opening to the game just showed everyone race around the track behind their King, swerving into the streams of candy he threw in his wake. This would only last for a few seconds and was viewed at a distance, so before a player could begin to wonder about who the white leader with the golden crown was, the screen would switch to a grid showing the day's nine players, and each character's biography would flash and sparkle and command all attention.

No-one had seriously questioned Vanellope's removal from the game, and the few that sometimes did were soon captivated by the choice of other racers to choose from. Most of the players had short attention spans after all, and Bill had begun to understand how despair was written.

King Candy had by then locked away the other racers' memories and written a few basic of lines of code to replace them. He was certain they would accept him as their ruler regardless, and so he hadn't bothered to encrypt these new memories very deeply.

Sour Bill suspected he simply wasn't able to.

Turbo wasn't able to write a fluent letter on thick parchment and, instead, had to laboriously scratch out individual letters on scrap paper. Bill hadn't commented on his King's possible lack of computer coding ability of course, and instead had remained thankful that his own code hadn't been corrupted and removed to the extent the racers' had.

If he was honest with himself, Sour Bill suspected this was another thing King Candy simply couldn't do.

King Candy could have discovered that Bill's coding was so compressed it couldn't be altered very deeply, and that the knoami code could only eat into its rigid surface before it dissolved. His Monarch could have discovered that Bill was so artificial in nature that he couldn't naturally decompose.

The newly crowned ruler could have discovered that, if you couldn't destroy or delete something, you could instead employ it as yours, and find a degree of peace by congratulating yourself on possessing a level of mercy you never thought you had.

After the start-up sequence had been removed and accepted, King Candy had regretfully informed Sour Bill that he was no longer needed because, since there was no longer a Princess, there was no need for a monster to threaten her. As much as it pained him to do it, he would have to be deleted because it wasn't right for a gameless character to masquerade in someone else's, was it?

Sour Bill had processed these words and widened his eyes and opened his mouth.

To this day Bill still couldn't conclude if that expression had been motivated by fear or incredulity or a painful anticipation.

But, King Candy had then announced brightly, there was now a new Monarch in the land - a just and fair ruler to everyone - and there was a need for a…well for _someone_ to serve him. Turbo had rested one finger under Bill's chin, who had allowed his head to be raised and for his eyes to meet his Monarch's.

They were yellow, and shined as sickly bright as the lemon drop lanterns that used to illuminate the castle before the King had incinerated them. Turbo's face had pixelated underneath King Candy's tight exterior, and Bill had glimpsed something obscene.

But Bill hadn't broken eye contact and King Candy had acknowledged this. With a sad twist of a smile and doleful eyes King Candy had leaned in closer, and whispered a chronology of unjust defeat and a future of rightful rule.

Perhaps, Bill had thought to himself as the words ate into his ears, he _could _be mind-wiped or deleted or turned into a glitch. Perhaps King Candy _was _being generous by offering him a place by his side.

But then again perhaps he _couldn't _be mind-wiped or deleted or turned into a glitch and, if he turned in defiance and walked away, he could try and fix Sugar Rush and restore it to how it was, whatever that may be. Perhaps he could remove King Candy from his throne, and the racers would cheer and thank him.

Perhaps he _could _rescue the racers and save the day, and King Candy would be defeated, but then they'd blame him for allowing it all to happen and even if it _wasn't _Bill's fault, not really, the fact was that he didn't stop it _immediately _and that's _just _as bad and so they'd hate him all the harder.

Bill had suspected and considered and detested and, in the hollow silence of the throne room, bowed his head in capitulation.

King Candy had smiled and carefully rested a hand on Bill's head and, with his nails, carved a fault line along its curve.

* * *

All hail King Candy - ruler of the race track, captain of confectionery, sovereign of sugar.

* * *

At his second Bad Anon meeting, with encouragement from Clyde, a stony stare from Ralph and motivated by several direct orders from Vanellope, Sour Bill had shared with the group.

He'd shared that he knew he was programmed to be the bad guy and had, after countless cycles of pretending to bleed poison throughout Sugar Rush, come to the conclusion that this was the problem.

He'd come to the conclusion that he was _aware_ of what he was and how he should act.

Zangief had clapped, Bowser had looked thoughtful and Zombie had drooled.

The collective introspection had then turned to colours, and what each one symbolised. He'd only listened with half an ear as everyone launched into a boring self-analysis of their colour code, but he had twisted in his seat and finally paid attention when someone had shrieked about acid green.

Sour Bill wasn't a spring meadow green or a minty ice-cream green. He was a bright, plastic, artificial green that wasn't naturally occurring. He was bright and florescent and gave someone a headache if they looked at him for too long.

Sour Bill had learnt that the only other characters – playable or not – in the whole Arcade that matched his colouring were the Cy-bugs in Hero's Duty.

Feared and detested by all, they didn't know that their purpose was to be defeated so that the good guy could triumph. All they had was their compressed understanding of the world, and all they knew were the overwhelming urges to eat, destroy and multiply.

But the Cy-bugs weren't one colour though: parts of them pulsed the same acid green, but unlike Sour Bill their core body was more or less a neutral black, which could be easily replaced whenever they ate something. They may be mindless killing machines, but they had the ability to evolve, to adapt, and to exercise the ability to become something more than what they were programmed as.

They could cloak themselves in a multitude of shades, while Sour Bill remained encased in a monotonous warning colour that couldn't be altered. Even his eyes were cloudy green, and were a window into yet more emerald murk.

Other bad guys in the Arcade had as much self-awareness as Bill had, but they weren't the same.

Quite literally, they weren't the same.

They may kill and destroy and be a collective target of hate in their game, but they had texture and colour and graphite layers to their existence.

Every other villain also had a genuine purpose and place in their game, which had been highlighted perfectly by Wreck It Ralph. The instant he'd left his game and the out of order sign had been slapped on it, his polar opposite had immediately launched a panicked search and retrieve mission for him.

Once, during a weekend of turbulent rain and thunder and spasmodic power surges, Sugar Rush's terminal had been affected. The game itself was still operational, but Sour Bill hadn't appeared at all on the start-up screen. The green pool of sludge had still spread across the race track and a cackle of laughter could still be heard, but its originator was nowhere to be seen. No player had noticed it or, if they had, didn't think anything of it.

During his daily inspection of each game Mr. Litwak had watched Sugar Rush's start-up sequence as usual but, when the thunder cloud appeared over no-one, he'd simply frowned. He'd flicked a finger against the glass screen as if trying to convince himself that something should have been there. But there wasn't, and maybe never had been, and he really should stop drinking so many energy drinks or soon he'd end up as cuckoo as his Nana.

Sour Bill had existed as Sugar Rush's tacked-on evil gimmick, and his acute sense of self had slowly beaten against the hollow confines of that existence. Even after the Arcade had closed for the day and the games had stopped, he was still just a futile addition to the landscape. He'd slouch along the dusty sugar coated path beside the vividly coloured racing track – would scuffle parallel to the true ruler of their world – and try to convince himself he was content with remaining outside looking in.

He could never quite achieve this level of acceptance, and could never quite forgive himself for it.

He'd then existed as King Candy's/Turbo's tacked on Henchman sidekick, and his sense of self had fought against the hollow confines of that counterfeit existence as well. As the years progressed his active lies had decreased, and the ones kept on life support by his relentless omissions had multiplied.

Vanellope had faded further into the background to become a dark, glitching shadow lurking in the racers' heads. Once the racers realised she wasn't dangerous - not unless she entered and finished a race but that would never happen - their warped code vented its pressure in the form of bullying her. These actions diverted away the remaining silver digits of their code that still shouted that something was wrong, and that they should investigate and fight it, and that expelling them in Vanellope's direction may be the path of least resistance but it wasn't the right one.

They expelled them that way regardless, and looked forward to King Candy's rewards in return.

* * *

The Evening Briefing pulsed, and the digital numbers ticked up to 6.56.

Sour Bill looked at the clock for the last time and, as if carrying a great weight on his back, plodded through Pac Man's tunnel. The train was idling and almost full, and Bill just stared at M. Bison as the fighter nodded at him.

Bill rode the train along the wire with his fellow Anons, and wondered if he should have nodded back. He wondered if he would ever nod first and, if he did, how it would be interpreted.

How he would _want _it to be interpreted.

His third Bad Anon meeting focused on the features a game's landscape could throw up to block your path. But not your physical path you understand - no, it was the more important path of your choices and your programming and which trails you needed to follow that criss-crossed them both.

Bill had thought of soaring chocolate ice-cream mountains and sucking Nesquick swamps, and how these topographies were never meant to be defeated.

He'd then thought of locked code rooms and stone brick castles, and how these man-made structures could be far more easily overcome.

He'd thought a lot and said little and not realised when it was time to leave.


End file.
